


Turn Off the Lights

by Jooon



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jooon/pseuds/Jooon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conrad has tried to avoid everything and everyone supernatural and skeezy since the first week he was turned. It's amazing how prone you are to dying even after you're already dead. Eventually ConWorth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turn Off The Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I got so sick of being on my own  
> Now the devil won't leave me alone  
> It's almost like I found a friend  
> Who's in it for the bitter end.
> 
> \- Turn Off The Lights, Panic! at the Disco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did i update this? yes. yes i did. and i'm going to continue it, too, because nearly two years of silence was just a little break, okay. now i'm back and more powerful than ever. also, yes: the title has changed - it used to be Cracks In Our Ships, but i chose to base and title the chapters off songs instead.

The harsh lights of streetlamps overhead don't hurt his skin, but make his eyes buzz through to the back of their sockets, downtown becoming a surrealism painting as he hurries his way past. His hunched shoulders try to create a barrier between the world, marching just as hollowly and as dutifully as a soldier doing its rounds - rounds, a trip to the store in which he silently wishes blessings upon night-owl gas stations and shops on the corner. Passerby hurry and slink past, a mixture of sleaze and mildly scared citizens getting back to their places for bedtime or assembling in alleyways for something a _little less_ cozy and legal. These ‘somethings’ vary widely, but none are particularly pleasant; they're the sort that people like Lamont deal with, and probably the doctor, at some point.  


These things are interesting against his will, like hearing about murder on tv or seeing those articles labelled _Worst Torture Mechanisms of All Time_. Conrad is that middle type of person, or an outlier that probably can't even be called a person anymore, which stings a bit, but he tries to focus on the grocery list in his mind instead of all these things that hurt his head. It still swirls just from all the city's blinking, flashing lights. He continues to steadfastly seethe down at the gritty sidewalk.

There’s one block of concrete left to go, and the relief of reaching his destination spurs tired feet to move faster. Perhaps if he weren’t so impatient life would treat him better, but tonight, at 1 am with the air eerily still, nearly everything bad happens.

.

First he believed he was being mugged by one of those sleazy passerby, mentioned beforehand. The thing about cities - especially so late, when nobody is so alert as to care - is that nobody really meddles in your affairs. Not even when you’re stuck in this kind of situation. And so when Conrad meandered past one of the dark alleys between two tall buildings, hands in his pockets with eyes glued to the ground, nobody noticed when he disappeared.

He finds himself whisked into a cold wall with strength that renders him a ragdoll. Through some unknown cause, the shock of pain cracks through his abdomen. A choking sound falls from his mouth. His breath is shallow and his eyes are glowing and feral like a cornered animal because, when it comes down to it, he is one. Conrad’s fingers scratch against the surface of red brick, and one of two men have shoved the something a couple inches into his dead stomach, and it's really a wonder how much you can still feel when you're not alive anymore. The sharpness slides through his skin. It feels like frostburn dipped into steaming hot water, and the blade cuts upward, glittering with his own blood.

It glides between his ribs like a taxidermist gutting a deer, and the sound he makes is a liquidy, panicking gag.

There is a canteen of something in the other one's hands. The stranger aims a sloppy splash into his sternum, and just as his feral strength registers, he's doubled over with a wounded growl and tears welling into his eyes. His knees give way. Rosewater sears into his stomach and burns the lining, and they hadn't sawed all the way up to his heart, but his innards still shake from their carriages; they poke through the slash in his skin from under his shirt. Conrad wretches dryly on the ground, and he's aware that his glasses are somewhere broken on the concrete too, his hands stinging with gravel-and-grime rubbed palms, and he mutely watches while two pairs of boots slip closer. One lingers behind the other, both cloaked in dark clothing with eyes covered by hoods. Hunched on all fours, he realizes he's making it easy to heave that knife up right about now and end this.  
And here's the horribly ironic thing: Conrad had done all this avoiding to keep from dying in the first place. His guilt over everything in life is welling and swirling in his mind through a thick fog of animalistic panic. The redhead kid who’d done this to him really wasn’t at fault, in the end. With the others so close he realizes this, with a piercing pain almost as big as the hole in him. It was all so counterproductive, running away, telling him to fuck off. He breathes shallowly, with little hisses of air that he doesn't require.

He figures he should have probably told Hanna it was okay just once in his life, because he's just a poor kid, and they're actually not so different.

Maybe he should have talked to his mother more often. He hates her. He remembers so many nights crying, and days crying, hours crying he couldn't count on 10 or 100 or 1,000 fingers, but _still._ He almost cries now, but his eyes are all dried up with fear, and his head pounds; bad memories and thoughts float like dust particles in light and his mind is so jumbled, and he is so

mad

that he wasted all this

time

doing nothing.

.

This time, he does not do nothing.

This time, his claws are crackling into the grotesque talons of nothing humanlike, and he reaches in a blink of speed ‘twixt the swing of the blade and its landing. He rears with a sound that isn't normal, and the thing clatters on the floor. When the man's backup advances to save them both, Conrad swings himself at him, movement fluid and fluent. The guy is sent reeling back, apparently having underestimated the ferocity of anemic vampires.  
His blood is ringing through his ears. Currently, the shy one's blood is being drank like nectar through a honeysuckle's trumpet. He can't feel (other than something closer to life than he's ever been, even when his skin was fresh and full of colour, when his eyes were that dull brown instead of bloodshot eyes with scarlet irises, and although he'd been made fun of for the boring shade he'd very much take that back now). And the only reason he stops draining them is because his stomach is eaten by burning rosewater in cherry-flecked flesh. Conrad takes one last long sip, akin to a dog lapping water from a muddy backyard puddle.

.

By the time the city's met with morning light, Conrad is no longer in the alleyway with the valiants and the tools of their trade. At 2:30 a.m. he slumps against a new alleyway, a familiar alleyway, and doesn't bother about knocking. His vampire mind knows that this is Good, and that inside is Not Good, inside is tedious and he's sure that inside is quite unsafe as well, if he decides that he wants one more little snack. Hunched, anemic druggies are really stronger than they look.  
At 2:33 a.m. Worth finally peeks out at whatever the fuck made that noise in his alleyway. He moves to crack the door and is immediately met with the answer. Something slumps over with a grunt as he opens it, and in his confusion Worth leans to observe the vamp successfully blocking his office. His form worms faintly on the ground, and after some consideration, Worth figures he should probably help him out.

Conrad wakes up enough from his haze to groan angrily. The doc uses surprising care in picking him up, but he's literally gutted like a fish, and so it’s difficult overall - especially with the blood-drunk vampire whining at him. He never really comes to properly, his eyes bloodshot and rolling toward him at times. Almost always with a mix of ferality and disgust. _Always_ disgust, actually, but sometimes he recognizes Worth more than others. Conrad mumbles some incoherent things as he's escorted in, louder with discontent when Worth comes close to ghosting his fingers over oozing innards; the simmer of his organs has calmed some, but the rosewater still looks like peroxide bubbling on a sore, but a good dose more disgusting.  
Conrad is propped onto a cot like a ragdoll and falls right onto Worth's fur-lined shoulder, but about the second he pokes at a dilapidated liver it sends him rocketing back from his personal space.

He gasps like his lungs have been filled with water.

" _N_ -" The shock of the touch brings him to more human-seeming senses. He stares down at the gloves feeling up his insides, and his face twists as if he's going to be sick. When he looks up at him, he gives him a look that's shifting toward repugnance. "Eugh."

"Thanks," his saviour drawls.

He recoils, even though he's in between the doctor and the slightly-peeling wall of the room. The table isn't big enough to scoot himself a safe distance, so he's stuck looking mildly offended and puffed like an angry bird as he tries to avoid the touch of his grimy acquaintance; he realizes slowly, however, that his condition is too bad for stalling. It's as if it hurts more to look at it, and when Conrad's eyes slide down the length of his torso and notice the little cavern where there should not be one, he goes whiter than normal. It churns his stomach, which Worth can see right now from underneath the edge of the fabric, pulled up slightly against the rest of his sternum. They didn't have to gut him like a game animal being slaughtered, but they did. Worth marvels at this with a little fascination.  


The mute sting of it all is nothing compared to the imagery, or compared to the fact that vampires' bodies don't heal very well, being dead and all. He's very sure that Conrad has grasped this fact. The doctor reaches to gingerly encircle his wrist, the one lying slightly limp across his organs, and frowns tiredly at the panicked member of the undead. He should probably say something calming, because before long he's going to start hyperventilating, though Worth is quite sure he doesn't have to do that breathing thing at all anymore.

"You're _real_ annoyin’," he grumbles out.

And that's good enough for now.


	2. Twin Size Mattress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She hopes I'm cursed forever to  
> Sleep on a twin-sized mattress  
> In somebody's attic or basement my whole life,  
> Never graduating up in size to add another  
> And my nightmares will have nightmares every night  
> Oh, every night. Every night.
> 
> \- Twin Size Mattress, The Front Bottoms

So, the only times he'd ever been in Worth's office was for the obvious reasons, bloodbags handed out alongside some meager, sometimes painful, conversation. Or moreso _confrontation_ , words always in the form of a high-pitched squabble or a low-tone, smoker's-voice drawl. Stupid skirmishes; bad impressions. He’d never known the doctor to be anything but loathsome, crude and cruel, but he was Hanna’s most trustworthy friend somehow. The boy came out okay each time, had even discussed him with some admiration despite confirming that he was nothing but sleazy. And yet there is still _something else_ about him, something somehow valiant about setting up shop in the middle of nowhere and actually trying to heal his equally-suspicious patients. He doesn’t exactly want to delve into that, though. His fascination is endless, but he’s scared to do more than scratch the surface, because there are consequences to things like that. Maybe someday he’ll just stab him with a scalpel, he doesn’t know. You really can’t predict that sort.  
Now they sit alone in the white light of the grungy tile room, Conrad presently subject to the horrors of the fairer man’s practice. Fixtures buzz above in a tune that adds white noise to the din - to the almost hushed and urgent struggle that goes on at the table. Flecks of something dark are freckles on the silver surface, maybe rust, probably blood, or a combination of both. Conrad had nearly shied away, but then remembered the already-scarce blood dripping out from his insides, the acidic shit gnawing at his skin.

He wheezes regretfully as Worth returns to him with all sorts of sharp mechanisms. The other continues to stoically - or just downright angrily - ignore his pain, though in the back of his mind he's glad the doc is at least being professional. That’s another thing for him, he still wonders why he didn’t graduate. He could have an actual office, work in an actual hospital, or something. The man is just about as bootleg as you can be.

And his mind is slowly beginning to clear, enough for growly bits of words to sound more coherent. Doc Worth dumps half a bottle of peroxide on a cloth and sticks it to his insides.

"Nnn _mmm_ ," he protested squeamishly. " _Fuck_ you."

Conrad's still working on being coherent.

The other squeezes his shoulder, but he's sure it's less of a comfort and more of a, 'hold still you little shit,' sort of thing. The more the vamp writhes away, the tighter the grip becomes. He can see every speck of dirt existing on white, fur-lined sleeves.

“‘That what you sound like in bed?”

Conrad breathes sharply. “Oh my god.”

The doc looks at him as though he’s proven a point. He works on cleaning bloody slush as the other makes faint noises of unappreciation, and it goes on like that for several more seconds. Worth becomes aware of the fact the other is still half out of his mind, and if he continues to inflict pain he may very well decide to deck him. It wouldn't take long to beat him down, but it would mess up the procedure, and he really doesn't feel like scuffling at 2 in the morning. Not with something supernatural, not with someone Hanna knows. Not with someone who'd be spilling blood and guts all over his office along the way. He works in cold silence a while longer, before deciding the taste that option puts in his mouth is too unpleasant. Besides - the other’s suffering fucks with his system, pisses him off. Feels like a hospice room, would almost _be_ one without the roaches. Surprise, he doesn't like others' suffering as much as his own. The bottom line stands that he doesn’t appreciate this.

"So how'd y'get into this mess?" he questions finally, the vamp opening one eye previously squidged shut. He looks back to the wound, wondering silently which bubbling is the peroxide or the vamp poison guzzling his guts.

Conrad shakes his head, pressed against the grimy wall. Briefly, he wonders if he'll get any bugs in his hair. Cockroaches sneak into vaginas, lay eggs inside them; what else can they do, where else will they lay? It almost makes Conrad shudder, but miraculously he keeps it down. "I don't...know," he says.

He shifts very slightly. Immediately, a ripple of disgust streams through him: "I didn't get into it. I got pulled into an alley on my way to the store."

His voice is ragged and tired, doesn’t carry the usual bite. Worth pauses, squinting up. He looks back to his stomach, peeling back parts cut open and peering into the trove of organs. Nothing else seems to be fizzling. No more blackish blood pooling. Worth grabs for the sewing supplies to stitch him up, questions swimming in his brain. He picks out the most important in his mind. 

"Wha's the other guy look like?"

And he shouldn't have said that, because Conrad is silent for so long that he's honestly a little worried. His eyes wander back up again, and if the vamp's face was pale before, it's reached its maximum by now. Haggard, shooting glances at the wall. The echo of mental scarring dances across the room, whispering _even you’re better than that_ in the doctor’s ear. He hadn’t expected for him to do the same, the guy was scrawny and timid. But other factors line up perfectly, and he knows the answer is obvious before he says it. Everything is suddenly very, very still, and Doc Worth shifts very, very slightly.

“Need me t’go get him, too, ask ‘em what ‘is damage is?”

“I killed them.”

He looks immensely ill. If he didn’t know better, the doc would move to get him a trashcan. It isn’t like he really hadn’t _supposed_ that, but Conrad isn't the most likely to be some sort of bloodthirsty murderer. Not like the people he’d apparently killed weren’t just as bad, nay, blatantly worse. Especially being that their reasons for murder were less justified. Conrad had been assaulted, flayed open, and had knives and burning liquid inserted inside him with a rude lack of warning. Both jobs likely ended up horrifying, and he may be exhibiting a _morsel_ of bias, but...  
Conrad had been gutted like a _fish_.

“Doctor,” he chokes.

“Worth.”

“Doctor I killed them, I don’t know what to do, their blood is all over my goddamn clothes, I drank both of them fucking _half dry, I just_ \--”

“‘Ey, didn’ know y’had it in you.”

The vampire regards him sickly for several seconds, mouth not entirely shut, the tiniest gap in his lips that says he’d like to curse him out again, screech, get off the table and attack him. Go take his assailants' blades and chop off his own damn head, do everything himself. But he also holds such a key of exhaustion that Worth knows, easily, that he won't do anything. The doc ignores it, taking the thread and the needle he’d gathered before and pressing his hands against his side. After a moment of annoyance, he tugs the shirt that keeps falling over the wound up, glaring pointedly at Conrad. Weakly, hesitantly, the vamp sheds it with a painful noise at the movement of muscles near the wound. It falls lamely to the ground, and the doc goes back to work.

He twitches continuously as Worth sticks him, but only slightly, for the most part relaxed - no, resigned. The nothingness between them is so silent they both hear the clock tick in the other room, set to the wrong time, but the steady _tick, tock, tick_ floats on through. Red-flecked eyes watch ants crawl across the floor with the occasional grimacing, expression absent, coming to terms with the terrible fact that he is, truly, a monster. Those kinds of ailments don’t just go away. Worth pities him. 

He doesn’t let him know that.

.

As soon as he finishes the stitches and cuts the thread off, it seems it’s time to go for Conrad. He reaches quickly to grab for his shirt, almost automatically, and the other stops him dead in his tracks. A pushy hand presses firmly to his chest, along with a sharp, annoyed, “ _Ey_!”

The doc continues. “You think I’m gonna let you pop them stitches right out again y’r fuckin’ crazy, sit up ‘n sit still, I ain’t done.”

The vamp regards him with weak fire.

“You _are_ fucking done,” he murmurs, along with spitting and squabbling something along the lines of not having all day, while Worth is halfway bent to pick his bloodsoaked item from the floor. "Don't need to fucking stay around you."

Vertebrae of Worth’s spine slowly click as he pauses, and then rockets back up in an instant. The other isn’t quite sure he’s ever seen his back so straight before. From his stance above the vamp sitting smallishly on the table, he looks ten feet taller, and a bit like a cruel, ravaging vulture. He inches so close the other sees the blood vessels of his eyes, thinks he can see one go _pop_ right as he gets in the vampire’s face. His breath tastes like smoke and bitterness, gritted through his teeth. Conrad could count the number of molars that are crooked, if he wanted to be extra rude.  
He looks nearly like a father hearing his kid say ‘fuck,’ though Conrad’s sure if he ever reproduced - a horrid thought indeed - he’d teach the changeling thing the word himself. If he were still wearing that shirt he’d yank him by the collar, but he settles for slinking dangerously close to his face. It merits the same effect.

“‘ _Scuse me_?”

Conrad coils into a defensive hunch on the table, glancing firmly away from the doctor and at generally anything other than him. His expression is livid, though mutely, and he really isn’t up for any fights. The sparks of his anger aren’t strong enough to cause a wildfire; they’re only that, just embers. Worth, however, is fully willing to rattle his teeth, and stays, leaning into his personal space just for spite. The other man coughs quietly, tasting a morsel of blood as he does so. He tries very failingly to avoid the gaze, tucking his face into crossed arms like an angry two-year-old in trouble. He peeks up once the doc dangles his shirt in the air, unraveling enough to reach and snatch it.

Worth yanks it away just as fast. The first syllable of protest on Conrad’s tongue is beat down by his monologue.

“‘S what I thought. Listen, y’ain’t leavin’ yet, you got blood to drink an’ things for me to rail you about ‘fore you go. Haven’t come here in weeks, where you gettin’ your blood at? Huh? _Nowhere_.”

It’s at this point that Conrad begins to shrink back.

“It’s your own damn fault y’bled two people dry to death, y’fuckin’ idiot, You need t’see Hanna after this.”

He turns on his heel and marches into another room, but not before launching the balled-up shirt toward him blindly. Worth snaps his gritty gloves off and slaps them in the garbage as he storms off, blue eyes cold as Hell frozen over. Conrad watches him leave, a creeping feeling crawling up his spine at the simple prospect of having to interact any further. This is why he never came over in the first place, too nerve-wracking, only shouting and blowing smoke in his face, invading his nostrils whether he voluntarily breathed it or not. It seeped in just like the headache he inevitably gave him, aching at his temples. Conrad puts his shirt on, but the stickiness of the blood makes him sick. Doc Worth wanders in with a bag of blood and a cigarette pressed firmly between pale, chapped lips. And he finds him in that familiar almost-fetal position, rubbing gently at his forehead, eyes closed but popping open as soon as footsteps approach him.

“Why do I have to speak to Hanna?”

“Got a problem with ‘em?”

The doctor’s face is glowering again within an instant, ripped into a snarl. He takes the blood gingerly.

“Don’ act like you don’t got ‘is number.”

And he does, but he hates for Worth to be right. Conrad had mentally admitted to his mistakes earlier, when his assailants had shanked him, but he won’t admit them now.

“Why do I have to get involved with him again? I just want to go home. They’re dead, there’s no reason to give a shit now, right? I’m tired, it’s going to be daylight by the time you let me out of here.”

The doctor sniffs, leaning against another table and observing him loathsomely. He seems as though he’s wondering if he should dignify that with a response, but after a while, he does. It takes a bit of time, however. He strides around the perimeter of the dingy room, eyes mapping out dustbunnies in the corners. He has some cleaning supplies somewhere, in the closet he never touches, along with boxes and boxes of other untouched things. Why clean up if he’s comfortable just the way he is? He counts the cobwebs. They’re good where they’re at. Conrad gives him an almost simpering look.

“‘Don’t think they’re human,” he starts. “Knew you were vamp right off the bat. Might be lookin’ for someone they can smell on you.”

And Conrad knows exactly what that means.

He has no clue what to make of it, but he can tell exactly who he’s hinting at. Oh, tonight is going wonderfully.

With that, he’s shooed away, but not after several quips and squabbles before he gets out the door. The doctor viciously reminds him to drink that blood he’d been gifted, and Conrad is glad that it’s night because he’s got a red-stained shirt and a bag of plasma in his hand, and he’s obviously going to take the backalleys and walk fast. At least the shirt is dark? Doc Worth bitches him all the way to the door and then some, and then tells him to get the fuck out, acting as though he’s the one who's been lingering the entire time. He slinks back to his front desk and crashes in it, propping his feet up and glaring and likely not moving from that position all night. His hawk gaze probably stares at the door accusingly far after he’s gone. Conrad doesn’t know; he’s out of there as soon as he kindly asks.

'Keen on him' his ass.

.

And so he finds himself having walked a mile back home somehow having dodged the sight of suspicious passerby. That, or they were too scared to interrupt his journey, all blood-soaked and unpleasant and obviously vampiric. He really didn’t expect to get home after his escapade, but here he is now. Watching Hallmark movies trying desperately to feel normal, after wiping every speck of his body of his dead attackers’ residue.

Conrad sinks ever-so-miserably into the chair in front of the t.v., and sometimes the weather makes the screen flicker, ‘cause he can hear a storm somewhere in the distance. And he sits there thinking he hates rain, it makes him depressed, even though he’s mostly always depressed. Especially nowadays. 

How can you be happy when you get the urge to drain people for a living? How can you be happy with the baggage that you’ve killed a man?

The blue moonlight shines onto his face like a cold hand trying to comfort him. It doesn’t do any good. The volume on the t.v. isn’t even up enough to hear what they’re saying, because he doesn’t really care. He still feels sick. The tempest of mistakes he’s made swirls inside his stomach, and he’s likely going to be healed by tomorrow, but that doesn’t keep it from stinging. That doesn’t keep it from being in his memory. It doesn’t keep the guilt from settling so heavily he feels like he needs another shower, and another, and another, and --

His doorbell rings in the almost-silence, quiet except for the white static of almost-words from the television.  
It breaks the moment and pulls him out of his thoughts. Hell, maybe Worth didn’t stay at his desk all night, maybe he’d followed him home. Maybe he’d called Hanna up just for spite and knowing he was thinking of not doing it - he wouldn’t put it past the kid to have been awake at this hour.

And then there’s the other culprits.

Terror.

The doorbell is pressed repeatedly about ten or eleven more times, consecutively, one after the other.

He looks through the peephole. Two familiar faces stare back at him. He feels as if he’s going to pass out for the third time today.

Casimiro stares pointedly through from the other end, and presses the doorbell once again. Conrad opens the door, quite against his will. He looks between him and the stouter, more stoic man beside him, and both look generally pissed off. Though he is quite sure that in his time knowing him, Cas has been nothing but pissed off and raucous, likely his default emotion. The fact that Finas’ expression is the same, albeit muted, is the more worrying thing, although it could be purely from his partners’ own dismay. God bless him, not like Conrad would be able to deal with the high-strungness.  
Both still unnerve the shit out of him. They’d said they’d kill him. He believes it.

“‘Ello, Conrad. It’s been a while!”

“I suppose it...has,” he says weakly.

“Have you found out where your girl’s been recently?”

The question is to the point and the undertone is accusing and knowing. The abruptness of the whole situation causes his brain to pause, churning, trying to catch up with the chain of events. He doesn’t know exactly how to respond. The warm glow of the hall hurts his eyes, and even though it’s too soft to necessarily burn, it makes Conrad’s head pound when it had only just begun to stop. 

He takes, once again, an entirely unnecessary breath.

“Adelaide? I-I haven’t seen her. Hanna hasn’t been that in touch with me, so I--”

“Wait, you’re not _working_ with Hanna?”

Well, shit.

“I - Uh, no? Ever since he turned me we haven’t spoken much, and--”

“Okay, wait. _Adelaide’s_ the one that fuckin’ did this to you, and what’s so bad about that? Why do you gotta complain while we gotta go on living?"

His anger mounts with his words. Casimiro creeps exceedingly close, and he looms worse than Worth had back at the office, when he’d let one too many things slip, but worse now because he knows just how much harm Cas can do:

" _You're the same as us._ "

Worth merely talks, only punches, only quarrels; the vampire is a vamp, and he’s been alive long enough to have his unique and bloody way of dealing with things, all quick-like. Conrad has a feeling that this time even Finas won’t stop him. Besides, they both have the same goal in mind. He stands with an eerie prickle running up his spine. The air is vibrating slightly like a swarm of bees in his ears, and he wonders if the others hear it. If the others are causing it. If it's just the auras or the heat that Cas' general presence gives off, or if Conrad's anxiety is edging him into an attack.  
He's not even as bad as he could get. But it's easy for him to reach that point.

"...We just didn't think I'd be of much help. I don't know how to use our 'link,' or whatever it is. We tried for a while." He tries to avoid that last accusation as much as he can.

"You tried for a while," the other repeats.

Conrad inwardly cringes.

"You _tried_ ," he snaps, volume raising to a shout within seconds; it echoes down the hall. Finas seems to stiffen more behind him, and as an afterthought Cas' eyes sweep around the hall. He lowers to almost a whisper, pressing Conrad into the room behind him. "For a while."

And just like that, he feels the static he’s conjured around them that triples with the fact he’s in his _space_ , and now he’s in his _apartment_ , and he doesn’t have to keep his threats low when nobody can discern them anymore. When nobody can witness the harm that may be inflicted. Conrad steels himself, his face dark, and both step further inside, with Finas closing the door behind them.  
They’re engulfed in utter silence.

He can hear his own heart beat, so in honesty it isn’t completely quiet. The other two can, too, 'cause that’s how vamps work. Hearing your fear and feasting on it and all that.

A hand alights gently on Conrad’s shoulder, clawed, and he feels an absent sting. In the moment, it’s only three angry and feral monsters and the moonlight, civilization along with that glimmer of hope both shut out. The scene is as absolutely thriller-esque and terrifying as it can be. But it feels painfully real, and not an ounce like the bad writing you see in movies and discount novels.

The irony of how he’d tried to _escape all this_ stings more than anything. It’s as if he’s come full circle and is now taking a dive straight into Hell. There is a lesson in this, and he’s about to learn it in two seconds. Conrad knows this as soon as the ashy monster opens his mouth with his null eye staring at him that way. The corners of Conrad’s mind flicker with fire and it’s almost as if he can smell the smoke, taste it on the tip of his tongue, and it’s always been hard for him to be speechless. But he knows, for once, his place in the world. It’s below creatures like this, even though in some ways they’re alike - but they aren’t the same, and in their brains Casimiro and Finas both know this: You can’t be that sort of demon till you’ve ruminated in purgatory for years and years. 

“If you don’t fix what she started,” he seethes gently, “I will find the others we 'enlisted', and most importantly I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you just for being _fucking worthless_.”

There it is. What sweetens the pot is that they absolutely will get rid of him so quick that it makes him sick thinking about it. He has no way to get away from this.  
Casimiro shoves him, vamp strength and all, so hard that Conrad doesn’t even have a chance to gain footing. He just plops onto his ass hard enough to break it, and his stitches ache like a lightning strike down his middle. He sits, doubled over and hissing, until the two vampires close his door politely and leave the cascade of the night's light to keep him company. And like almost every night on the outskirts of daylight, he crawls into his bed miserably, terrified. He tucks himself in and curls in the blankets like a kicked dog, his insides pinching. Like every new dawn, the end of the moon is met by pain and more pain till he falls asleep trying to think of good things, and his dreams are a reassurance that those good things are all impossible by now.  


Most weren’t plausible when he was alive and his heart was still beating, skin wasn’t lukewarmly whitish.

And it’s quite sad that’s almost a relief, saying, “ _Nice things were never reasonable anyway_.”

Next step, tomorrow when the day has thoroughly run out: Confront his guilt face to face, more formidable than the rest of the things he's faced tonight. The most disgusting thing his deprecating ass can imagine is _himself_ , after all. And he isn't looking forward to that, not the redhead's hurt hidden behind all his excitement, god damn his bouncy fake emotions, and not to the zombie's traffic-light-red eyes watching him like a warning sign. Knowing he's not any worse than the kid with his actual willingness to do this, knowing that he's left Hanna before. That he's ran away and made him feel the weight of the world and the death of somebody even though they're still well alive, if you could go as far to phrase it that way. Sadly existing, more like.

The point is, he is well aware that he's made himself out to be an enormous, ignorant asshole. And when he sees him tomorrow, the other will be so glad to see him regardless.

Hanna is the worst form of torture.

.

It’s as much of a torturous experience starting out as he had imagined, unsurprisingly. He’d gotten it right to basically every detail, especially those eyes that cause warning bells to go off in his head. Conrad smiles in what he hopes is an expression of politeness and reassurance, instead of what feels like a worming, ugly thing. He tries to control his breathing and his body's twitching, but those things are about impossible to do.

“Mister....Achenleck,” Hanna says owlishly, blinking from behind his rigid partner. The zombie holds the door and looks down at the vampire like a bouncer who knows that like hell you’re eighteen.

“C-Conrad.” He feels like that stutter is strike one. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, I know I could have called, but I’ve caught wind that Adelaide is still -- _thriving_. You remember my case, don’t you?”

“Yes! Of course I do. We tried to get that settled about a month ago, even came to your house a time or two and called a shit ton of times, something wrong with your phone or something? Vamp life must be busy, though, so I completely understand. And don’t worry, we weren’t doing anything! Let him in, Birch, if you would.”

The zombie’s gaze stays steadily on him without a blink, which might be normal, but it is _definitely_ pointed as a fucking knife in this instance. Nevertheless, ‘Birch’ drops his arm from the doorknob and steps dutifully away with a kinder look swung toward Hanna. The kid flounces toward a pile of things on the coffee table and shuffles through a ton of papers and files before he pulls one folder out, which has his name written starkly on the front as he can make out from there, even sans his shattered glasses back in that alley. He flips through the contents of it, rambling on as he always does as his eyes catch things. He has actual files on people? More organized than he seems, that’s for sure.

“I-I remember your case like it was yesterday, don’t worry.” Ah, yes. _Guilt_. “Adelaide was supposed to have calmed down some, though I’ve heard from Worth that she still, er, fraternizes with Lamont. Was it Cas and Finas who told you? Those guys seem to be even worse than her, I swear. I never even got what she was supposed to have done, either. I tried to locate some information on vamps and locating sires and all that, and I have some theories to test out, now that you’re here and stuff. Nothing solid, but at least one method should work, right?”

Hanna skims over what seems to be a sloppy list of said methods before looking back up at Conrad, standing awkwardly and a bit stiffly in the middle of the drab living room. “How do you even know she’s causing trouble again, anyway? Was I right?”

The vampire takes a breath. “I got shanked rather purposefully in an alleyway last night.”

“ _What_.”

“You’re right, though. They came to my place a few hours later trying to start shit, like they could just sense that I needed more of their _mouths_. Anyway, they reinforced the idea that they’d kill us if we didn’t get our plan together and...cooperate.”

Conrad sighs raggedly, glancing vaguely away with that last part. Hanna pushes all the important things from their stack precariously onto the corner of the glass, and sidles onto the coffee table to perch like a strange bird. He seems to swish his thoughts around in his mouth, and his companion moves to hover with his back to him against the couch’s arm. He can see without knowing his expression that the zombie is worrying about the ‘killing’ part, and simpering as best as his body will let him at the boy for putting it off. The case had been a touchy one to begin with, and they were all stupid for letting it sit. Conrad already knows, however, that he is a complete and utter dumbass with only a smidgen of redeemable qualities.  
He watches their shock set in mildly. Then he figures on continuing.

“I spoke to Doc Worth while he was, er, patching me up. He says he believes they weren’t straight Hunters, with how they could sense me, or that’s how it seemed.”

“What happened to them?” Hanna asks, finally breaking from Birch’s crippling stare. He can tell it’s the same type he’d given him in the doorway, because under all that chipper Hanna's almost shuddering.

And there’s the question that Conrad fucking hates.

“If they’re still out there we could just hunt them down and ask them directly, that should be eas--”

“That’s. Not going to work.”

“Oh.”

Hanna’s eyes don’t look scared, they just look pitying. He figures he’s about to ask that whole ‘have you been eating’ question, but he’s sure that either he knows Worth would’ve gone over this, or he knows for a fact that he hasn’t been in for about a month. He’d been looking for him, he inevitably had to stop by the doctor’s to ask him to pass on a message. And he hates that Hanna already knows he’d ditched him once and fallen off the face of the planet, into an abyss of dark space and wallowing till he was etched in black so far down it touched his soul. So far he couldn’t care less about goring a guy when it came down to it, had starved himself to the point of immense counterproductivity.

Not counterproductivity.

Monstrosity. Something along those more heinous lines.

“Listen, how about,” the redhead clicks his tongue. “How about you meet me tomorrow at the same time, and we’ll start trying to test out these theories and stuff? We’ll get you fixed up. And don’t worry about all those vamps, I mean, they can’t mean all that talk, right?”

“You know for certain that’s a terrible underestimation.”

Hanna pauses with a painful wince.

“Just...go home and rest, okay?”

.

So despite the sense of lingering unsafety, the anxiety-driven feeling of being watched following Conrad like a drifting ghost home, he gets there safe this time.

When he does, once again he finds himself curling on the cold bed even though it’s barely mid-day, in vampire time. How silly it is to think that depression just melts off when you’re dead, as if his likely-literally rotting brain fixed itself when bitten, instead of morphing into something more monstrous. Speaking of the bite, his hand floats up shakily to touch the previous wound on his neck; it’s gone. One good thing in a sea of horribly bad things, at the cost of a murder. Well.

Conrad falls asleep and his room is the sea, his bed is a torn lifeboat and he dreams saltwater all throughout the daytime. He isn’t ready, but when he wakes with the blue-green taste in his mouth he decides he has to get it out the hard way. Like scooping the wet out of his little worn raft with bare hands.


End file.
